


Mochaccino Cherub

by jane_potter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle, Racebending, Table Sex, bookstore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale returns from Heaven with a new corporation, and Crowley is a little bit taken by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mochaccino Cherub

**Author's Note:**

> Written for oxoniensis' Porn Battle 11. Prompt: coffee. Also, this is because I am a little bit sick and tired of how, in a fandom whose main characters can canonically change bodies (and presumably have, given the ludicrous idea of them wearing white corporations in Africa or the Middle East in the years BC), nobody ever presents them as person-shaped-beings of colour. Nonsense, I say. Nonsense. And Adam and Eve were black. *nods firmly*

The first thing Crowley thought when he saw Aziraphale stranding behind the counter of his bookshop in a brand new body was that the angel's skin was the colour of the trendy, ridiculously expensive coffee Crowley had bought that morning. Half-fat, no foam, low sodium mochacappuchococcino-sodding-cherry latte. The Ferrari of coffee. Sinfully good.

Startled, Crowley peeled off his glasses and squinted to be sure. "Aziraphale?"

As if noticing Crowley's entry for the first time, the angel looked up from the fifteenth century grimoire whose pages his too-skinny fingers were curled carefully around. Then he smiled his middle-aged smile with that twenty-something mouth and Crowley knew for sure.

"In the flesh, dear boy," Aziraphale said. "Er. Again."

Crowley momentarily thought of asking what had become of the old corporation and where Aziraphale had disappeared to for those long, frightening seven weeks when the angel had vanished without a word, leaving Crowley in the dark as to whether or not Aziraphale's superiors might have decided to recall him, punish him, get _rid_ of him. Then he decided he didn't care after all, and stalked across the shop.

"Bi-millenial performance evaluation," Aziraphale answered anyway, frowning and distracted by the memory. "Even after the whole Apocalypse thing, all anybody could ask was what I'd done to my body. One _tries_ , you know," he said, a touch prissily. "For a corporation ninety years old, I'd done a good job with it, but they're only flesh and blood. Not perfect. And Michael-- I still can't believe the nerve of him, saying-- Michael called it _slovenly_ , and--"

Then Crowley's mouth was upon his, forked tongue prying between soft lips that had already decided peaceful surrender was the best option, and the rest of Aziraphale's tirade was cut off.

Already working at the buttons of the angel's horrid shirt (well-fitted on a newly lean body or not, it was _tartan Oxford cloth_ ; Crowley should have recognised Aziraphale immediately), Crowley slotted his hips up against Aziraphale's, pushed, and bent the angel back over a table of half-priced penny dreadfuls (1). Far more interested in the dusk-pink nipples that were revealed when he pulled Aziraphale's shirt open, Crowley ignored the angel's sputtering. A moment or two after Crowley had set to work, biting and licking and kissing his way downwards in the implicit promise that he would uncover more skin as he went, Aziraphale didn't have much to say in protest, anyway.

The new body looked a lot like the ones Aziraphale had used to wear before Crowley had gotten quite so good at institutionalising racism. His hair was soft and dark and faintly curly, and the celestial gleam, rather than showing up as a white, mercurial glister beneath the surface of still blue pools, expressed itself as the eerie silver-grey lustre of a black pearl in the bottom of those dark, dark eyes. A flush the colour of russet apples rose in the skin Crowley had been worrying, in the bite marks and spit-slick hickeys that patterned the angel's ribs and flanks. The palms that stroked so very gently over Crowley's hair were like the dust beneath fig trees, dry and soft and a parched shade of brown.

It was old flesh, familiar flesh; even after so many centuries on that fantastic little world, it was what Crowley thought of first when he thought of 'human'. It was flesh just a shade lighter than Eve's, whose own had been two creams shy of Adam's straight double-shot espresso.

At Aziraphale's navel, Crowley lifted his head to take in the very agreeable view up the length of the angel's corporation. Something in Aziraphale's face told him that his eyes were probably doing something weird.

"You like it?" asked Aziraphale breathlessly.

"Yesss," Crowley hissed, slit-eyed, and curled his fingers beneath the waistband of Aziraphale's tweed trousers.

"Oh, good," the angel said faintly. "I'll probably be keeping it."

And, ducking his head to kiss the high arch of Aziraphale's hip bone, Crowley made a mental note to advance anti-discrimination policies in a couple of powerful governments sometime soon.

  
(1) They were quite soft, being much obliged to Aziraphale for letting them keep their Victorian era dust and all.


End file.
